The Roleplay Times
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: In which I get bored and write random oneshots inspired by roleplay. Beware, for this contains slash and a lot of things that you won't understand- unless we roleplay. Major Marker and Kings. And other, less conventional things...
1. Antoneil Feelings

**A/N:** What is this mindfuckery, you may ask? Well, if you've ever roleplayed with me, or witnessed one of them, you might know about Antoneil… Oh, fuck this. I don't feel like explaining. If you want to know then just ask me, mkay? I got bored and wanted to upload this so I did. :) Enjoy.

Disclaimer: _I joint own this idea with my bro, Elizabeth. Because we rule. But RENT isn't mine._

**Aaaaaand… Antoneil angst!**

Restless, Mark leaned halfway out his bedroom window and stared at the ground, morosely wondering if he should just climb through it and make the jump to the ground. One false move and he could break his neck and then it would be over. No more Roger to worry about, no more Neil. No more Inky and April and Adam and everyone else.

But he wanted to worry about them, and that was the frustrating part. How was he supposed to let them move on without him if he couldn't do the same?

More and more, his thoughts had strayed from Roger- who was supposed to be his boyfriend, although as of late hadn't seemed even remotely close to it- and back to Neil, exactly where they _weren't_ authorized to be. Neil, Neil, Neil. He wondered if it was self-absorbed of him, but they had already discussed this- they might both be Mark Cohen, but when they were together they were Neil and Toni and that was just how it was going to be. No amount of mental berating could stop the constant stream of thought-

_Where's Neil? What's Neil doing? Is Neil with his Roger? Is Neil sleeping? Is Neil awake? Is Neil thinking about me? Has Neil forgotten me yet?_

He shook his head, troubled, and bit down on his lip.

_I want Neil._

God, but this was ridiculous. With a heavy sigh he slid back into his room and flopped onto his bed, pressing his face into his pillows and groaning. _Neil_. With his shock of blonde hair, his baby blues, his mischievous grin as he mocked Toni for being shorter than him. Arms around his waist, lips to his temple-

He couldn't do this anymore.

The house was silent for the most part. It was late evening and Cindy was putting the kids to bed, his mother was settling in for the night, and God only knew where his father was right now. The clouds were dark and ominous, hinting at a storm, and still Mark was considering just walking out and catching the next bus. He could be in the city before midnight, he could see Neil, Roger, but _Neil…_

The camera, slightly dusty, watched him from his nightstand and he swore the gleam on the lens was knowing. If his camera was a person, it would have been shaking it's head at him in exasperation. He hadn't touched it since he got here, which in itself was a sign that he was probably sick, or more likely depressed. There was a heavy feeling in his chest that suggested the latter. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling, arms behind his head.

White, white, an expanse of white that he couldn't possibly connect to New York and Roger and Neil and all of those other things… It was perfect. Right?

Except then the white turned into a canvas, blank and ready for his scrawl, his projections, and the mental movies that he always seemed to be making were flickering across it. Neil on the couch with him, their noses brushing. Roger, pinning him to a wall, arms above his head. Nuzzling into Neil's neck, tears streaming down his face, two new cuts angry and red on his arm.

"_Shhh, it's okay, Toni it's okay… I love you."_

"Fuck." Almost unaware that he'd said it out loud, Mark sat up so suddenly that his head span but he was too high strung to care about a little dizziness. He couldn't take it. The scarf draped over his headboard was snatched up, wrapped around his neck, and the camera picked up for the first time in months. The cool metal in his hands felt like homecoming, but he knew that he wasn't home yet.

Walking quickly across the floor littered with dirty laundry and pages of old, abandoned screenplays, Mark grabbed his wallet off of his dresser and strode to the door. He paced down the hallway, down the stairs- ignoring Cindy's questioning look- and out the door.

The wind howled around him and the first fat raindrop hit him on the forehead as he stared up at the sky, pausing. Neil's image, his voice, were still strong in the front of his mind.

"I love you, too…" he murmured, and then he was striding again down the sidewalk.

_I'm coming for you._


	2. AbusedTeen Roger Headcanon

**A/N: More plotbunnies that Elizabeth will probably approve of. Things we cannot actually do in roleplay because Roger is a timid little abuse victim and this wouldn't be realistic. Haaaaai guys I wrote things. :3**

Disclaimer: _RENT no mine._

**And now for teen Roger and adult Mark.**

It was getting frustrating.

Roger hated being sixteen. He hated being _pitied_ actually, but Mark couldn't seem to help it. He was always there giving him those looks, those _fucking sympathetic _looks that just made Roger feel ten times worse about his situation.

So he'd been raped. So he'd been abused. Yeah, it happened, but he was trying to forget and Mark wasn't helping in the slightest. He was exacerbating the problem.

And to be honest, now that Roger knew his sex drive was nothing to be ashamed of… now that there was someone showing an interest in him, a genuine interest in him as a person, someone who gave him soft kisses over the counter and told him he could stay as long as he liked… now he kind of wanted that sort of relationship with someone. A normal one, for once. He thought that he could do it. He'd had a while, a month, to heal and move on and try to shape himself into a regular teenager.

But just when he started to think so, Mark stopped.

He stopped kissing him. Stopped holding his hand. From the minute he found out Roger was a rape victim Mark had stopped altogether.

"_I don't want to take advantage of you, Roger."_

Well it hadn't mattered when he was just a sixteen year old boy, so why did it matter now?

Part of the problem, he'd admit, was probably his submissive tendencies. He wasn't all that submissive by nature- actually, he was kind of an asshole when left to his own devices- but years of sexual servitude to older, sadistic men had made him this way. All "yes sir" and "it's fine" and "okay". Never "no". Never "stop" and never "I don't want to."

No wonder Mark pitied him…

And maybe, he could see, Mark thought that he would just go along with any moves he made on him because he was trained that way. But that wasn't fair! Roger wanted sex, dammit- it had been long enough and he was starting to get over things, get better, and he had gotten in touch with his libido and JESUS, was one kiss so hard? No! It wasn't!

So he began to plot.

If Mark wouldn't make a move on him, he reasoned, then naturally he would have to be the one…

Now he just had to figure out how he was supposed to be seducing an older, more experienced gay man.

Roger grinned at himself in the mirror, in the middle of gelling his hair into sexy messiness.

He was going to seduce Mark Cohen if it was the last thing he did.


	3. Um so yeah Drunk Roger

**A/N: **Oh my god Toni wrote more, aren't you proud? I'm going to come out and say it- this is for Olivia for our pseudo-ten month anniversary because I'm weird and keep track of these things. Anyways. I got bored, and was feeling sappy, so here. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: RENT no mine, but Ocs are. :P

**SO MUCH MARKER SO LITTLE TIME**

Whenever Roger gets drunk, Mark gets laid.

It's a simple equation. Mark and Roger have lived together for nearly a year now and Mark has taken it upon himself, as the self-proclaimed Witness, to create a formula for it.

Lonely, Horny Mark + Sex Hound Roger + Unresolved Sexual Tension + Alcohol = Sex on Any Available Surface.

And he's perfectly fine with that, because well, he's lonely and horny and there's nothing better to do when he's given up on finding a "real job" and taken to lounging around on his creaky mattress or the ridiculously battered couch that's barely held together by an inch thick layer of duct tape in the living room writing crappy screenplays that never make it past page three. And of course, Roger is just hot.

What healthy nineteen year old male was going to pass up an alcohol-fueled sexual encounter against the fridge? Certainly not Mark.

So when Roger comes home reeking of cheap beer on a Saturday night at nearly one in the morning, Mark has to resist the urge to grin. He's already unwinding the scarf from around his neck when suddenly he has an armful of sobbing guitarist and when his brain catches up with his sex drive and gives it a reproachful slap in the face his eyes widen in alarm. "Roger? Is everything-"

"Missedyou…" the rocker slurred, sounding positively miserable and slumping all over his smaller friend, breathing on his neck. Mark doesn't even have the libido to take an interest in this, too worried that Roger is having some kind of mental breakdown- he hasn't seen him cry once in the ten months he's been living here, and God only knew how intense their fights could get, as non-confrontational as Mark normally was. It would have been reassuring (reassuring that Roger was human or that Mark wasn't just a crybaby pussy, or both) if there hadn't been a red handprint on his roommate's cheek.

"Roger, what happened?" Mark finally manages to maneuver them onto the couch, voice thick with worry, but Roger won't meet his searching blue eyes. Instead, he cuddles into his side and heaves another sob. "Come on, Rog, you can tell me."

"M'fine, lemme alone," he moans, voice gruff and broken as another wave of tears rolls down his face.

This is one of those situations where Mark miraculously loses that awkwardness that turns people off on a daily basis. It's probably, he supposes, because he knows that whatever he says Roger probably won't remember it in the morning anyway. His hands come up to stroke at Roger's messy, gel-spiked hair gently, biting his lip as he gazes at the distraught songwriter.

It's regrettable that he isn't getting laid, but he has to admit that this is almost better in a way. The moments when he gets to touch Roger like this, so soft and slow and innocent, are few and far between and Roger doesn't usually cling onto him like this. It's kind of nice.

"You're the one latched onto me," he points out dryly, lips twitching upwards. Roger finally looks up at him with tear-filled green eyes, bloodshot- yeah, he's drunk, and Mark wonders if it's possible that he might get drunk just being in proximity with him because his breath is making him dizzy. "What's up?"

"I- I think I lost it," he mumbles, face coloring beneath the sheen of tears. The hand-shaped red mark glowed against the palette of his face. Mark reached up to brush his fingers lightly over it and he flinched away.

"Lost what, Rog?"

"_It_," he emphasizes, as if saying it slowly will help him understand. Mark just blinks at him in confusion, tilting his head, but Roger is obliviously continuing. "S-she said- she _hit_ me, Marky!"

"Oh." It clicks and Mark really can't help grinning, but the sympathy still shines in his eyes. So that's what this was. Another one night stand- or not, apparently. He reached up and more firmly pressed his hand to the swollen flesh, sympathetic. "Oh, Rog, it's okay."

"No s'_not_," he wailed, burying his face in Mark's bare neck and sniffling. "She _hit_ me and said she would-wouldn't sleepwithme in a _million years."_

"Oh wow." Biting his lip to keep from chuckling, Mark pulled the distressed man into his lap, wrapping his arms around him. "That's harsh… But it's not the end of the world, Roger. Just don't worry about it."

Roger shakes his head, clinging to him like a baby koala and pressing his face into Mark's sweater. Mark is nearly overwhelmed with the urge to go get his camera and get this on film- how many times in his life is he going to see Roger Davis, post-rejection drunk and moaning about life's unfairness? Not to mention… It was sort of cute, this insecure side of his roommate. It didn't come out to play very often and Mark was pretty sure he was the only one (besides Collins, but they'd promised never to talk about that again) who ever saw it. He indulges him, stroking down his back and murmuring soothing words in his ear, for a few more minutes before Roger summons up his drunken courage and speaks again.

"An' I told her- I said- I said, 'Well that's okay, I c'ldgetbetter'," he lamented, gazing into Mark's eyes soulfully. He pauses then, mulling this over before smiling shakily and leaning in. Mark's eyes widen- when does Roger ever kiss him? Maybe he'll be getting laid after all- and Roger stops just short of kissing him, murmuring against his lips, "I w'sright. I gotyouuuu."

Overwhelmed with a sudden, embarrassing surge of fluttery emotions the filmmaker grabs his hair and firmly presses their lips together. Roger makes a pleased mewling noise into his mouth. He tastes like tears and stale beer but to Mark it's all fine and dandy because at least it tastes like Roger.

When he pulls away, he's smiling too, a fond, honest smile. "I love you too, Roger."

The way Roger beams at him is entirely too much for his heart. It's not like he's sober, and there's no way he's going to remember it in the morning- especially in the context of his less-than-manly crying fit. But Mark finds himself wishing that he could say it when Roger was in possession of his wits…

The drunken songwriter slumps against his chest, a warm, lean body against his and he sighs and closes his eyes as he shifts, pressing them closer together, settling in probably for the night.

Maybe he'll _never get to say it out loud… but Mark lives for the moments like these._


	4. Tolya you whooooooore!

**A/N: OH my gosh. All the sexual tension. And I totally blame my lovely ladies and roleplay partners, Elizabeth and Olivia, because… well… I just do. _ Point being! I wrote Kings things and here they are. Mlahhhhhhh.**

Disclaimer: _How many fucking ways can I disclaim this goddamn musical? And the other one?_

**Tolya you whoooooooooore!**

Anatoly is very fluent in the English language, but sometimes he wonders about the terminology that the American uses with him.

"Fuck! God, you're such a whore!"

Wasn't that a bad thing? He would pause for a moment, eyebrows furrowing in confusion wondering if he was supposed to be offended but then Freddie would push him insistently down again and he would swallow around his cock obediently, using his hands to keep his hips pressed down into the bed.

"Beautiful cocksucking SLUT!"

And that- wasn't that some kind of contradiction?

Because beautiful was like- like a snow-covered morning in Moscow, pure and white. And a whore was a chapped-lipped old biddy caked in too much makeup on a street corner.

Something didn't add up…

Sometimes the former Russian wondered if his diction was just off.

But then, maybe it was just that it was Freddie Trumper- chess champion and sexual deviant of the western hemisphere, or so Anatoly had dubbed him. A month and a half into their risqué relationship he was beginning to realize exactly how depraved Freddie could be.

He fucking loved it.

It was too bad that he couldn't teach Freddie any fun words like he had been introduced to- _fisting, _for example, had become one of his favorites. The American refused to have anything to do with anything Russian.

_Except,_ he mused to himself, _my dick._

Because there was no way Freddie was going to give up their rambunctious sex life just because of an invisible _Made in Russia _label on the shaft he loved to tease so much.

In the end, he supposed, it really didn't matter all too much. Freddie was stubborn but he sure knew how to fuck his mouth like no one in the Soviet Union ever had.

Maybe there were perks to this whole 'whoring himself for a passport' business after all.


	5. MOAR TRANSFREDDIE

**A/N: Ackkkk I need to update this more often! Jeebus! It's been awhile hasn't it. *guilty* Well I'm back with more random shit to spew your way so um, enjoy.**

Disclaimer: _Chess itself does not count as one of my possessions…_

**He just doesn't get it does he?**

"Is- is this _yours?_" Anatoly spluttered, freezing as he pulled the offending garment out from under the bed. Freddie glanced up in annoyance and froze.

"Um- no. It's Florence's…" There was an awkward pause.

"Florence has smaller breasts than you."

"Bigger than yours."

"I'm a _man_, Freddie."

"Well so am I!" he seethed, and Anatoly cringed, nodding meekly. He knew better than to broach this particular subject with his lover by now.

"Right…"

It had taken some getting used to, that was for sure. A few months ago Freddie had simply been his opponent. Now, he was something much more complicated- which, of course, wasn't helped by Anatoly's discovery that he did in fact have a female body. It had been disconcerting to say the least the first time he had walked in on Freddie changing and gotten a full frontal view of breasts he could never have imagined himself onto his new "roommate".

Lucky for him and his lacking imagination, he no longer had to fantasize because he had them in his bed every night.

Of course, Freddie insisted most of the time that he keep his binder on. This usually resulted in him rapidly overheating or becoming unable to breathe, and then Anatoly was left hard and aching and frustrated while he went to calm down and maybe take a shower.

_Why can't you just accept? You're a woman. It's your own goddamn body._

The first time he had said THAT Florence had to stop Freddie before he literally stabbed him with the knife he'd been eating with. Perhaps it hadn't been something he should have brought up over a steak dinner- but could anyone really blame him?

Of course he was frustrated! Freddie had a fantastic body, and he really ought to show it off more, at least in Anatoly's opinion. Not hide it away like he was doing.

Not mutilate it like he was planning with that awful surgery next May.

But it really couldn't be helped. Freddie was headstrong. Freddie could be an absolute idiot but he was going to do what he wanted whether or not Anatoly approved- and heaven forbid he ever say a word against the surgery Freddie had been looking forward to all his life.

"… I'm sorry," he finally sighed, averting his eyes. "I'm trying."

"Not hard enough, apparently."

The Russian rubbed his temples as the other man got up and stormed out of the room, leaving a chessboard only half set-up in his wake. God, but Freddie was vexing. And to make matters worse, he made Anatoly doubt himself. He was a logical person, wasn't he? He was intelligent.

But somehow, Freddie had picked the only thing in the world that he would never for the life of him be able to see the point of. If he didn't get it soon, Freddie might just pack his bags and leave.

Why couldn't he understand?


	6. Freddie is not father material

**A/N: I promised this to Olivia and I'm such a sucker for her so I wrote it and here you go. xD This was WAY funnier when Elizabeth and I came up with the idea at 4 am the last time she was over, just so you know.**

Disclaimer: _I don't own Anatoly OR his daughters… or Freddie… or any of them._

**PREPARE FOR AWKWARD!FREDDIE**

Sometimes Freddie wondered why he had been so averse to keeping Anatoly's family in his apartment. They weren't so bad, really. Even the girls were old enough to take care of themselves- Emilia, eight, and Natalia, eleven- and Svetlana hadn't said a word to him since the first day.

Maybe this little arrangement would work out after all.

"Freddie…?"

He internally cursed as the older of Anatoly's two petite daughters peeked around his doorway and flipped his book shut with a snap, straightening up. "Yes…?"

It wasn't his fault that he had no idea how to interact with a child. He had hardly known how to when _he _was a child, and he certainly didn't have any experience taking care of one of his own. Technically, he was the girls' stepdad-

He shuddered. No. No, it would be awhile until he was used to that. Best to put it off.

Natalia hid behind her blonde hair, peeking out with large, frightened blue eyes, exactly like her mother's. "I- I need- Mommy said I should ask you…"

"Ask me what?" he sighed, attempting to soften his tone from his usual reproachful growl. This was a child, after all, not a full-grown adult free to call him an asshole if they wanted to. She chewed her lip, cheeks heating.

"I- I'm _bleeding_," she whispered, sounding absolutely mortified. "D-down there."

A quick glance at her told him all he needed to know. Eleven and awkward, what was probably her first ever pimple forming on her chin, one delicate arm curled around her midsection as though she was in pain- oh God… Svetlana was an evil bitch.

"Ah- oh. Oh. You're- well, Florence keeps that stuff under the sink…" Awkward, he averted his eyes and wished desperately that he knew where Florence _was_ so that he could direct this distressed child to her and never have to think about it again. Unfortunately for him, Natalia's eyes widened in confusion.

"What stuff?"

_Oh, please God, don't do this to me…_

"You don't- you don't know about-" Spluttering, he scrambled for some way to put it so that she would understand. "You- hasn't anyone told you about your period?" She shook her head. "Y-our time of month? Mother Nature's gift? Your monthlies?" His hope drained away rapidly as she continued shaking her head, looking increasingly worried.

"Are you making it up?" she asked tentatively, voice trembling, wringing her hands before her. He slumped his shoulders in defeat and heaved himself to his feet.

"No… Look. Let me just show you where they are and I'll- explain…"

Intense gratefulness flashed across her face and she took his hand as he passed by her into the hallway. Although he blanched, he didn't have the heart to pull away- not when she was looking at him like _that_, like she trusted him completely, like he was her _dad_ or something.

"Um- so every month you- girls- they bleed- from um, there." He began, waving a hand absently about as he crouched down to rummage in Florence's drawer in the bathroom, succeeding in pulling out a Maxi pad and handing it to her unceremoniously. "It means that you can have a baby. It's not um- it's okay. Really."

"It happens to everyone?" she breathed, pressing a hand to her forehead and practically whimpering in relief. "Oh…"

"Yes." He coughed, straightening up and dusting himself off, looking anywhere but at the feminine product clutched in her porcelain hands. "So… So there's- you open it and- and the back sticks to- yeah…"

In the back of his mind he was screeching about the bloodstained pair of white cotton panties beside the toilet, but he managed not to stare and gave her a tight smile. She threw her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. "Thank you Freddie." She mumbled.

Nodding, he nervously replied, "No problem." And dashed out of the bathroom, heart pounding, hands shaking. Fuck, the kid wasn't even _his!_ What had Svetlana been thinking!

As he thought it the blonde woman waltzed past him on the way to the guest bedroom where she had taken up residence and he froze, watching her as she smirked and turned slightly around to observe him, not once pausing in her path.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Trumper."

He gaped as she swerved into the room and quietly shut the door behind her, a dark flush rising on his cheeks. Anatoly soon followed his wife, pausing and furrowing his brows as he saw the dumbstruck look on Freddie's face. He patted his cheek lightly, giving him a faint, amused smile.

"Freddie, you should lie down. You look like you need some sleep." A quick peck on the lips and he had disappeared into their bedroom, leaving Freddie baffled behind him.

He'd always known that the Russian's were evil, but this hadn't been quite the brand of treachery he had anticipated.


	7. Prepare to cry!

**A/N: Can I just right here tell Olivia not to read this because I don't want her to cry? Okay? Okay good, so we're on the same page.**

Disclaimer: _Roger isn't mine but Cowcheese I think I have the rights to._

**Ready, set, positive**

Eli spend his entire life learning how to be careful, how to be polite, how to do things the proper way, the right way, and to stay out of trouble. It helped that he was a gentle person by nature- it _didn't_ help that he lived right below one of the most obnoxious men on the planet.

Roger Davis was very literally the most irritating person he had ever had the misfortune to meet. It was a wonder that Mark, so sweet and sensitive and just plain nice, could stand to be around him let alone have _sex_ with him. Eli wrinkled his nose at the thought. It wasn't like he'd never been _curious_ but really… Roger was revolting. And Harvey was very much enough for him, thank you.

The problem arose, of course, when Harvey _ceased_ to be enough. More specifically, when he ceased to show an interest. Desperately horny and lonely, Eli had turned in his distress to the last person he would have ever wanted to talk to.

It was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea.

Now he sat on his bed holding his head in his hands, feeling absolutely sick to his stomach. He didn't care how many times Harvey told him that it was okay, that he forgave him, that it was "only fair" considering the number of times he'd cheated on him with Mark. He didn't care. It was _wrong._ He felt wrong.

His test results wouldn't be back for another month.

Why, why couldn't he have at least done it with someone like Mark? Sometimes he understood why his own boyfriend was so hung up on the filmmaker even after all this time. Mark was sweet and he would have taken care of him. Hell, he would probably have sent him back home before he could do anything with him. He wouldn't have been so _stupid._

He wasn't _positive._

Roger's cursing. His own blind panic. Over and over and over he heard himself say the words, sitting up out of bed, hair mussed and eyes full of tears, "W-what do you mean broken?"

Stupid. God, he was so stupid. His mother had been right to tell him he would never make it in the city. She was right to tell him to stay home, go to church, be the good boy he'd always been. Stop messing around with all of those queers and go back to his family, back where he belonged.

He hadn't believed her. She had warned him and he hadn't thought himself stupid enough. But now he was staring at his own death sentence, all because of a faulty piece of rubber and Roger fucking Davis.

Again, he wished Mark had been around to stop him. He wished Mark was around at all anymore, because maybe if he was then Roger wouldn't have been bored and lonely and horny just like he was, and maybe they wouldn't have fallen into bed together, and maybe maybe maybe...

He was sick of maybe and he was sick of his own thoughts. Eli was just sick of Eli. He was just _sick._

He didn't want to wear one of those beepers… He didn't want to have to remember, twice a day, to take those little life-saving pills.

He knew that it was shallow, but he didn't want to have to constantly remember to wear a condom when he was fooling around with his own boyfriend.

And in his opinion Harvey shouldn't be taking him back at all, not after this sort of betrayal, but he was afraid that if he said it out loud then he really would leave and then he'd be alone…

No one would want him now. His family… they would disown him. He'd never see his sisters again. His mother. His grandmother, sick in the hospital. It would crush her. He could never let her know- but with his mother it would probably get to her anyways.

Harvey… God, he loved Harvey, but he already didn't want to sleep with him. Now that he was positive… well, he assumed… now that he was positive, he didn't stand a chance.

Time to say sayonara to his sex life.

Eli sat in the darkness and thought, thought, thought, but he still couldn't find an upside to any of this. He curled into himself, finally lying on his side, but sleep wouldn't come to him. Oh, no, he wasn't getting out of it that easily.

It was going to be a long month.


	8. Raping Freddie like yeah

**A/N: I really really really couldn't resist writing this. I claim no responsibility for my depraved imagination! :/**

Disclaimer: _I think at this point you can tell I don't own these musicals._

**I obviously don't put Freddie through enough.**

He deserves it, and that's what he tells himself when he's being slammed into the counter for the third time, the breath knocked out of him as tears form in his eyes.

He deserves it and he's going to take his punishment as Anatoly deals it, because it's all his fault anyways. Of all the people to get pregnant, of all the people to sleep with in the first place, he had to pick Svetlana…

He really, really deserved this.

He really, really believed it.

In the back of his mind he wonders where the children are, and Florence, and Svetlana, but does it really matter? If they have any sense they scurried to safety the moment they heard the boom of Anatoly's angry voice.

He's never succeeded in making him angry before. Now, he's sorry he tried.

It hurts. Technically, if he thinks about it logically, it always hurts. But this hurts especially. He deserved it and he'd take it but God, that stings. How did Anatoly like this? This is the first time Freddie has ever, ever understood the quip "you can never have too much lube." Was Anatoly bigger or was it just their position, just the circumstances, that make the full sensation excruciating?

Every thrust makes him choke back a sob. His husband's hand, the one that isn't busy bruising his hip as he keeps him pinned to the counter, is twisted into his short hair and he's almost thankful for the distraction from the agony he's experiencing below the waist.

Through the pain, he wonders if he can even get hard in a state like this. If he could, that might make it better… make it bearable…

It's sickening that the words Anatoly are growling in his ear, the hate that seems to fuel every jerky, rough motion of his hips and his hands and his teeth marking his neck, hurt more than the actual act. It's horrifying to think that he means all of those things- that Freddie is twisted and selfish and impossible- and it's impossible to wound his pride at this point, because he doesn't have any left.

He shudders when Anatoly finally stills inside of him, panting into his ear, and not in a good way. There are tears soaking his face, glazing his blue eyes, and a scream caught in his throat.

He tells himself he deserves the pain.

It's nothing compared to Anatoly's absence.


	9. Diary of a bedwetting Roger

**A/N: I think that it's become our personal mission to humiliate Roger in as many ways as we possibly can… So… This happened. Don't judge me.**

Disclaimer: _RENT still no mine._

**Feel free to giggle like you're six.**

He had prayed that he would get lucky. It was only happening once, maybe twice a week now- he'd managed to keep him away for the worst of it. This should be fine. Mark would never know.

His mom was just being stupid, overcautious. Sixteen in diapers? What a ridiculous notion.

Roger _Davis_ doesn't wear diapers.

He does, however, piss the bed.

It's not his fault; the doctors told him as much, and he clings fervently to the words if only because without them his pride would be in tatters. He still remembers the humiliation of the first night, waking up and rolling over to discover he was totally soaked and smelled like urine and oh, God, he'd wet the bed like a fucking six year old.

Explaining the excessive one a.m. laundry runs had been impossible, and his room had begun to stink after the third day. He never wanted to admit something like that to his mother ever again.

He especially doesn't want to have to explain it to Mark, and with luck he won't have to.

It's just for the weekend…

And it's turning out to be a pretty great weekend so far. Mark is just as enthusiastic to see him as ever, willing to forget his recent neglect. That's one of Roger's favorite things about his best friend. He's so patient with him, so understanding, even when he doesn't deserve it. (Which is most of the time.) And this weekend he brought _beer_ instead of just that stupid camera that he's always lugging around like it's his baby, and he's listening to Roger play the new song he'd learned on his guitar with those big blue eyes full of adoration and pissing the bed is the furthest thing from his mind.

Eventually, inebriated and giggly and touchy feely as ever the two boys tumble into bed and cling to each other like brothers. At least, that's how Roger's trying to think about it. Brothers, not friends because it was fine to get a boner as long as it was with-

Well… Never mind that theory.

He falls asleep without a care in the world, Mark's leg hitched around his waist and his breath hot on his neck.

Two hours later he regrets inviting him over at all.

"Roger? … Roger- Roger I think you spilled-" Mark's voice is still thick with sleep, like there's a yawn at the end of his sentence that he really wants to get to, and he's legitimately confused in his drowsy state as to why there's liquid trickling down his sleep-warmed thigh and onto the bed.

For his part, the moment he stops grumbling about being woken up, Roger is _mortified._ It's impossible to stop it mid-stream and he scrambles away from his friend in humiliation, the hot flood still soaking the front of his pants, darkening the fabric all the way down his legs and making his face flush a shade of crimson that he hadn't been aware even existed before now.

Fuck. That's all he can think.

_Fuck._

He's scrambling to explain before he's even stopped pissing, panicking- this is _Mark_ staring at him in confusion, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he peels himself off of the damp sheers. Mark. He reminds himself of that several times before he manages a coherent enough sentence.

"Shit. Mark. I'm so, so sorry- I can explain-"

"S'is why I told you not to take the beer to bed," he complains, cutting Roger off before he can embarrass himself further. Roger blinks, staring at him incredulously- there's no way he could possibly have mistaken what had just happened- but Mark is just giving him an awkward, crooked smile as he slips out of his pants, making a face at the way they stick to his legs.

It's clear, in his eyes, that he knows exactly what had happened. It's also clear that he's going to let it slide. Roger's shoulders slump in relief, tears welling up that he hastily swipes away.

"… Yeah. I guess next time I'll remember that."

They share an uncertain smile and Roger looks away first, feeling okay about himself for the first time since he developed this stupid bladder infection in the first place.

A half-full can of beer sits innocently on the nightstand.


	10. In which Freddie is crazy of course

**A/N: Writer's block is being a total bitch to me right now so I'm just gonna sit down with this word doc in front of me for a while and hope for the best… Once again, I'm not responsible for the deranged things my brain might spawn. xD**

Disclaimer: _RENT no mine, Chess no mine, all of them no mine._

**Freddie's hearing voices? Why is that not surprising?**

FPOV

Ever since he left, it's all I can hear. Once I got Florence out of my face it was like they all crowded into the room, taunting me, shouting over each other to be heard.

I don't want to hear them. I just want to be alone.

As far as I can tell they don't have names. As far as I can tell, they're probably all a figment of my imagination anyways. But without Anatoly around as he has been for most of the past year, I'm incredibly lonely. More so than I ever was before him, and I wonder how that's possible when I have four more people and two on the way living in my apartment than I did before.

When I say I want to be alone, I really mean that I'm sad. I don't _actually_ want to be alone. I want to brood and be miserable. And I want to do it where everyone can see.

Not that I want their pity, but if I have to suffer then so should they.

I wonder where he is. Hell, I wonder where _I_ am. I'm lost in a daze. I'm not even sure that I'm still in my room, or even in my apartment. This is probably dangerous. What if I wander outside and get hit by a bus or something because I'm so far gone, so lost in my own thoughts?

Florence would save me, I think, but it's still something to think about. One more thing out of thousands, most of which have to do with Anatoly, who walked out. He had a right to. I did a bad thing and I should have known I would have ended up paying the price. I just didn't want to. Consequences aren't my thing, you know?

And now I sit in my room playing chess with myself, and the pieces talk to me. Occasionally Florence wanders in, talks to me, and eventually realizes I'm not going to respond. She brings me glasses of water. Aspirin. Sleeping pills. Breakfast.

The only thing I've accepted is water. If not for Florence, I don't think I would have gotten up to get it myself. I'd probably be dying of thirst by now.

Sadly, that might be preferable to the state I find myself in now.

The white king doesn't talk. I've been noting these things, searching for patterns, like any good chess player. The white king doesn't talk but the black one does. The black king is the cruelest, the most angry at me. I think he has a right.

In fact, most of the pieces seem angry with me. I could have guessed that. They berate me the way I berate myself for letting him slip through my fingers. Florence doesn't seem to be able to hear them but that doesn't really surprise me. I've always known I was a little bit different.

Crazy, they call it. Hmph. Whatever floats your boat…

Still, I've never heard the chess pieces talk before and it's almost fascinating. I'm not even usually aware that I speak to them out loud when I answer, only when Florence is there standing stricken in the doorway. I let her watch because I don't have the energy to shoo her. I know she won't turn me in.

Svetlana doesn't come to talk to me, and neither does her daughter. Either they've been warned off or they, too, blame me for Anatoly's absence.

I've played a thousand games in the past eighty some hours. I haven't slept, haven't eaten, haven't bothered to shave or shower. I pace and toss and turn. I lock myself in the bathroom and count in thin lines up and down my arms, one for each hour, with the pocketknife Anatoly left behind. I wonder if he does the same wherever he is, in a hotel bathroom perhaps, but something makes me think that I'm not worth the sting.

There is no peace to be found. In truth, insomnia isn't entirely to blame for my constant vigilance. There are the voices, too, that come from somewhere deep inside me. They tell me things. Call me names. The eyeless pieces on the board seem to stare at me with accusation.

No matter how many games I play, the black pieces always win.


	11. OCs abound and kill other OCs

**A/N: I haven't posted in foreeeeever… Jeez. Alright, I guess it's time to void all of my randomass ideas on ya'll… I hope you enjoy them, I've been a little off lately. But this wouldn't get out of my head. xD Liv, don't read this before you go to bed.**

Disclaimer: _… actually… I don't even think this chapter counts as fanfiction._

**Serial Killer!Harvey on the loose!**

To be perfectly honest, Harvey Mackenzie has always had a morbid fascination with death. He grew up on a ranch in Texas, and he'd never been sheltered from the concept; with three older brothers, any attempts to keep anything from him went horribly awry within minutes. He can remember, for example, asking his mother what happened to the puppy who hadn't survived it's birthing and being told by his eldest brother, Jesse, that it was going to be eaten by worms.

But worms aren't what Harvey is interested in. No, worms come later- the part _he's _interested in is the actual death.

Anyone who knows Harvey, or thinks they know him, knows that he's an avid photographer. Everything that moves and everything that doesn't is captured somewhere on one of his Polaroids, boxes overflowing with them, clotheslines crisscrossing his room with pictures and pictures and pictures of complete strangers, random objects, events he had taken no part in. Harvey just liked to capture moments, defy death if just in this small way.

He'd been told once that to take someone's photograph was to steal a piece of their soul, and although he'd never been particularly religious and wasn't sure he bought into this particular concept, it still struck a chord in him that nothing else seemed to strike.

When the obsession had started is easy to pinpoint. How, also remarkably easy. But the why was perplexing, and he didn't bother with it much. Deep inside, guilt niggled at him, told him that he was an abomination and a murderer and all of those nasty things his mother had warned him, ironically, to stay away from when he had moved to New York in the first place. He suspected that voice, that uncomfortable feeling, was the "conscience" that he must have buried a long time ago.

Because above everything else, Harvey did this to be _moral._ That's right. He wasn't trying to hurt anyone, not necessarily, not even to kill them. No, Harvey didn't see it as killing someone when he had his pictures to keep. What he was doing was something much greater. He was immortalizing them. He was making them memorable in a world that didn't recognize their passion, their purity.

It had started with his old college buddy, a downtrodden boy from Maine with stunning blue eyes who had always, always managed a sunny smile where it was needed even when his own life was so covered in rain clouds. During the year that elapsed between their meetings, Harvey had begun to see what he had to do, how he could correct the great wrongs that humanity was doing to itself. And so he had smiled right back, cocked his head, asked a few innocent questions…

Several hours later the alley behind the restaurant they'd visited was blocked off by yards of yellow caution tape, his stiff white body lying strangled on a stretcher as it was carted away for investigation. Harvey, in the meantime, was already back at his apartment in Manhattan, in his darkroom developing pictures with a dark sense of victory, self-satisfaction.

From there it had progressed. One good person's misery was not enough to end; he began to seek out others, people he didn't know, that he'd never know now. It was a delicate sort of research required to make these decisions, but in the end somebody always ended up dead, throat purpled and devoid of fingerprint evidence as the man with the camera stealthily slunk out of the alley.

Why should these people have to suffer in life when they'd already done so much to help the people around them? Why should these poor, unfortunate souls be bound to a life that could never, would never appreciate them in the sense that Harvey did? It wasn't playing God, it was playing the good man, and in his opinion there were alarmingly few of him.

His next victim- no, his next _liberation-_, he read from the page, was a man named _Elijah Sergievsky_, a closet case if there ever was one from Wisconsin. He wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. These were always the worst, the biggest wastes, the countless gay men he had to kill in order to open the eyes of society and set somebody free. For a moment he wonders to himself if this Elijah would like him, or vice versa- but he shakes this from his head almost immediately. He can't be thinking like that.

Harvey has become an accomplished stalker in these past few years, better even than a serial strangler, and it doesn't take him long to track this man down. He waits in an alley, waits and watches the mouth for the tall, gangly man to pass by, the one with the curly mop of hair. It's noon when it happens. Without hesitation, he creeps out onto the sidewalk and calls to him.

"Hey!" Waving frantically, he plastered on an anxious sort of smile, the kind that drew this type in like a moth to a flame. "Over here! Can you help?"

"Sure!" The voice, when it chirps back, is deeper than he'd imagined. It takes him off guard and he tries not to flush, tries not to feel the tingle it gives him. God, but he's never felt so much concentrated optimism rolling off of someone from this far away… The tall man strides towards him and peers at him without fear, without the common sense that most people in this city have when it comes to strangers in alleys, and Harvey finds himself momentarily breathless. "What d'you need? I'd be happy to help!"

"I- Um…" Composing himself, he nods into the darkness. "I needed help dragging my friend out to the cab I just called… He passed out back there and I can't carry him by myself. It'll only take a minute-"

"Oh, of course, yeah," the other man nods, following his gaze and squinting as if he actually expects to see a crumpled form on the ground. He pads back into the alley, slow, letting his eyes adjust and feels along the ground with the toe of his shoe. Baffled by such a display of foolish trust, Harvey takes a moment to follow after him.

Entirely by coincidence, there is a man passed out next to the dumpster- it's a lucky one, too, because for maybe the first time since he'd started his self-proclaimed career as a serial killer his hands are shaking and he's not sure he'll be able to pull the cloth tight enough around that long neck of his, not like this. Elijah crouches down and feels for the man's pulse; Harvey crouches slightly behind him, feeling in his pocket as quietly as possible for the instrument of death.

He finds it, wraps it around his hand- a strip of cloth, an old piece of a linen set cut up for just this scenario into convenient strips- and his hand begins inching to hover over the back of the other man's neck, getting a feel for how the struggle will go. But before he can do anything, before he can carry out the plan that he's actually starting to feel guilty about, Eli turns around.

For the life of him, Harvey couldn't tell you even today what changed in the split second when their eyes met. He wasn't even aware of getting closer, close enough that their noses bumped, but somehow they were just that close and then-

"Um- if you want to kiss me… I don't mind," the other man whispers, biting his lip and smiling at him shyly. "I'm Eli."

He doesn't know what to do, to say, but his mouth does and so do his hands. "Harvey." A tentative smile forms on his lips, and he's leaning in, and maybe he'll take him up on that kiss because everything feels funny and for once, death isn't the only thing on his mind.

Because Elijah has become Eli and Eli has become this man he's kissing, the heat behind his lips, the soft way he said his name and maybe he's being overly-romantic but Harvey wants to immortalize _this _particular smile, these curls, the softness of this skin, in something more than a picture.

He wants to immortalize it in him_self_. Not in pictures, but in real memories, the kind you spin in your head and keep to comb through when you're old and gray and have nothing better to do.

No, he decides as his tongue traces those pink lips whose shade he'll examine more thoroughly later, he doesn't want to kill this one. He wants to keep it.

Not it. Him.

Not him. _Eli._


	12. The boy in the dog cage

**A/N: Ahhhh I promised angst to Lizabeth ages ago and she probably forgot by now… But here it is xD Yay for Pervertoly right? Not only is he a major pedophile, he's also pathetic! Yaaaaaaaaaay! Hooray! Glitter and rainbows and yeah!**

Disclaimer: _Anatoly and Freddie most definitely belong to greater minds than mine._

**The boy in the dog cage**

There are few things that Anatoly has seen that have horrified him since his departure from the Soviet Union with his wife and children. This is one of them.

It takes him half an hour, growing more agitated every second, to make his way to the front door of the house. It's not the best neighborhood and it shows; he can hardly believe he let Freddie come _back_ here once he saw it, but he had foolishly let the child make his own decisions.

After all, who was he to tell a seventeen year old how to live his life? Freddie wasn't _his_ child (thank God for that) and besides, he didn't seem like the type to take orders well.

He was just an old pervert with a crush on a minor.

Now, he was just a terrified lover.

There were badges everywhere, officers swarming the building, a tangle of yellow caution tape and a buzz of grave voices, the scribble of pens on paper, the crackle of walkie talkies. As fluent as he was in the English language, he couldn't make out what most of them were saying. Very few smiles were worn, and those he did see were tight, faked. Florence had said to meet her there, and he'd gathered- after a long interrogation about his knowledge of the situation, which got him nowhere- that she was somewhere inside.

With Freddie, he hoped.

An overwhelming sense of apprehension practically crushes his heart into his lungs as he cautiously peers inside.

It's dim, but he can make out two figures standing over a shape huddled in the corner- with a sick lurch of his gut he realizes that the shape crumpled in the corner is _Freddie_, shuddering and shaking his head violently to whatever the woman beside him was murmuring. Not far from them is a medium sized dog cage of sorts, it's door swung open, and on the other side of the room is an overturned dining room table. A faint, sickly odor seems to hang in the air but he can't identify exactly what it is. There's a dark stain that he definitely doesn't want to think about on the floor- all he should be thinking about, he reminds himself nervously, is Freddie.

Florence straightens up as he rushes over, halting him with a hand to the chest, as though that could really stop him right now. The expression on her face is what does it. He stops and gives her a desperate look, as tired and anxious as he feels, but she shakes her head and guides him away grimly.

"What happened? What did they do to him?" he demands once they've made their way down the hall and into a bedroom, plain but for a table and a chair in the far corner and a messy bed. He wonders vaguely if it were Freddie's, but it can't be- there's no chessboard, and he remembers Freddie's insistence that he bring it back with him in the first place.

Then he wonders if Freddie has any siblings, and that train of thought makes him even more nauseous, the memory of an angry woman shrieking and a bull of a man charging after his lithe lover across the lawn as he sprang into his car surging to the surface. Florence is lucky that she can't see into his head. She speaks quietly, solemnly.

"Julie dropped by this morning like I asked her to, just to be sure nothing too illegal was going on. She found him locked up-"

"Locked up in what?" His eyes widen in horror, recalling the cage he'd seen moments ago, choking. "In a _cage?_"

Her nose wrinkles and she reluctantly nods, wringing her hands. She was obviously no more pleased about this than him and he has to give her credit for remaining so composed, because he knows that he's anything but. There have been bags under his eyes since the first night Freddie left. "It gets worse."

"Worse?" he echoes with growing dread, swallowing down bile. _Freddie._ What had they done to him? It was only three days ago that he'd had him pinned to a wall, head thrown back and mouth open in a scream of ecstasy. Now, a stranger- who knew what he'd been through?

"Once the police got involved and took the boyfriend away- that's when I got Julie's call and rushed down here- we managed to get him out of the cage but he won't talk. He's covered in burns. Cuts. There are other suspects, but we can't get a word out of him to identify anyone. He won't eat or drink, but I don't think he has in the last two days-"

"What?!" His mouth tightens, heart hammering, making for the door in determined strides, but she catches him by the wrist and he turns in frustration. "Just let me talk to him-"

"Tolya, it's no use. He would hardly let us near him. No one can touch him, or he'll start screaming. Whatever they did to him, he's pretty traumatized." She looks away, sickened and slightly ashamed that she hadn't been able to stop this before it had happened. Anatoly can empathize.

"Just let me talk to him," he repeats, voice tinged with a pathetic degree of helplessness. She hesitates, but after a moment she nods slowly, although her eyes remain as hopeless as before.

He pads back out into the dining area, crouching immediately beside Freddie and struggling not to give a horrified moan at the sight of him as he comes into focus. The other woman, presumably Julie, looks like she wants to protest. She moves aside at Florence's cue as she trails behind him, however, and gives the two of them some space.

It's worse than he could ever have imagined. It seems like every inch of the boy's skinny body is marred by a scratch, a bruise, a small circular burn- a cigarette, perhaps? God, it's horrendous. He has to resist the urge to reach out and brush his fingers down his arms, which have tightly wrapped around his knees. His forehead rests atop them and he stiffens as Anatoly scoots closer, evidently in no state to be carrying on a conversation.

"Freddie," he murmurs, voice husky with unshed tears. It would be comical how fast Freddie's head snapped up if it weren't heartbreaking. His normally meticulously groomed hair is greasy and unkempt, his blue eyes bloodshot and surrounded by deep purple rings. His skin is even paler than it usually is, and tremors rack his body at uneven intervals, like he's about to fall apart any second.

What had they _done _to his Freddie? What happened here?

He's not even sure he wants to know. He already wants to throw up.

"Freddie," he tries again, voice shaking just slightly. Tentatively, he rests his hand on his knee and it seems like a miracle that Freddie even lets him. He looks like he wants to bolt but doesn't trust his legs to hold him up, shrinking slightly back into the wall. "Talk to me."

"No." Just that tiny word, broken and raspy, is enough to elicit a gasp from the women behind him and Freddie promptly clamps his mouth shut again. Stubborn as always. Anatoly finds himself relieved that this, at least, is the same.

Because this isn't the Freddie he knows- and maybe he didn't know him very long, but he sure was fond of the Freddie he knew. And he wanted him back.

He strokes his knee softly, trying to coax him out of his sitting position. "Please? I won't hurt you. We just need you to talk some and then I'll take you back home and we'll get some food in you, how's that sound?" Part of him knows he shouldn't be making promises he isn't sure he'll be allowed to keep, but Freddie looks like he's thinking about it, temptation flashing in his tired, panicked eyes, and he thinks that he might be just short of a breakthrough.

It's another minute before Freddie responds, slow and careful, almost too quiet for him to hear- he has to lean in and then Freddie rears back, breath hitching in unadulterated fear. He tries again. "I- I don't- What do you want?"

Resigned now, he peers up over Anatoly's shoulder at the women, but his words are obviously intended for Anatoly so he makes something up on the spot. "Who did this to you?"

"My mom's asshole boyfriend and his asshole friends," he answers promptly in a dead voice, shutting his eyes again and shuddering. This isn't something he looks like he wants to be remembering, but he's already committed himself and the words are beginning to flow. "When I got home there were four of them over, playing cards. They- they remembered."

Remembered the less than stealthy invasion of the house a week beforehand, in which Freddie was chased halfway down the street with a half-zipped duffel bag in his arms and Anatoly waiting anxiously in the car.

"_Drive drive drive!"_

He nods, gesturing for him to go on as if it's really necessary. Freddie is doing an awful job of holding back a hysterical sobbing fit- his voice breaks almost continuously, one or two saline drops already streaking his face as he recalls it as best he can. "They tried- they beat me up a little and, and one of em wanted to touch me- but the other guys called him a fag and they locked me up." His voice drops, ashamed as he glances into his lap- the yellow stain on his white pants tells Anatoly all he needs to know about the sickly smell and his heart goes out to him, worrying his lower lip to avoid saying anything out loud and heightening his embarrassment. "…They didn't let me out."

"That was two days ago." Slowly, his horror is being replaced by a white-hot rage building deep in his chest, venomous and vicious. He twists to look at Florence meaningfully and she nods, smiling a bit, sadly.

"They put him away for life. There was a drug bust and a body. It wasn't too hard."

He nods and turns back to Freddie, slightly relieved to know that the blood in the corner beside the table had nothing to do with this fragile teenager who already looks ready to keel over. "You're going to be okay," he promises, and he finds Freddie's hand, meeting no resistance as he squeezes it.

Freddie is stricken as he meets his eyes again. He licks his dry lips and glances around, his fright apparently warring with his desire to get the hell out of this house. Finally, he asks, timid, "Could we have Poptarts?"

His face splits into a wide grin, wanting to cry himself at the hopeful look on Freddie's face. "Sure. I have some in the cupboard. Are you ready?"

"I'll make arrangements," Florence murmurs, and Julie hastily nods, scribbling something down. As Anatoly gets to his feet and Freddie stiffly follows his example, wobbling and weak on his feet, he's handed a card with a number in blue ink.

"Someone will contact you by tonight," the blonde woman tells him, watching Freddie with poorly disguised concern as he clutches Anatoly's hand for dear life, humiliated and trying not to meet anybody's eyes. Anatoly simply nods, wrapping an arm around his new charge's waist and guiding him to the door.

"Let's go home," he murmurs, lips brushing his ear. He can feel Freddie smiling, and as half-hearted as it is, it's progress.

Someday, he's going to fix Freddie. And it might be a long way off, but it's worth every moment. Every smile, giggle, the pressure of his hand- _he's_ worth it, and those bastards who did this to him can rot in prison for eternity.

He'll be damned if he doesn't get custody of this kid by the end of the month.

Maybe he isn't his father, but he can sure as hell try.


	13. Vikki got a toaster and she seems proud

**A/N: BACK BITCHES. Prepare to be disturbed. This is from psycho!Freddie verse, one of my personal favorites. (they're all one of my personal favorites) Anyways Freddie completely off his fucking rocker so don't expect any sanity, here you go, I bring you a peace offering o mighty reader. *bow***

Disclaimer: _Still don't own Anatoly and Freddie, although I act like I do._

**Freddie is a motherfucking creeper**

Anal sex isn't something that Anatoly typically likes to dwell on, but he's certainly dwelling on it now.

It's probably his own fault- all of this is his own fault, actually, because he had to go and steal Trumper's girlfriend last year at the lousy inn that he hadn't bothered showing up at. That part is partly Freddie's fault, he supposes, and partly the wine, and maybe he shouldn't be taking all of the blame but he feels really goddamn stupid in hindsight. He doesn't remember agreeing to this but Freddie says he did. And he's starting to believe him. Trapped in a hotel room for days on end, he's starting to go stir-crazy- everything blurring together, one endless nightmare and Freddie's soft voice is so honest, so convincing that it's hard not to listen.

His wrists have scabbed over from the number of times he'd yanked at the handcuffs. They're gone now, God knows where Freddie has stowed them but they can't be far because he can practically feel the cold threat of them around his wrists every time Freddie brings it up.

If he missteps, he can never be exactly sure how Freddie will react. Best not to risk it.

But now he finds himself untethered, unguarded, with a spontaneously naked Frederick Trumper "helping" him shimmy out of his pants and he dazedly wonders what he can possibly do to get out of this. It doesn't seem promising.

"I'm going to go slow," he promises, palm hot on his navel, pushing him back onto the mattress. Anatoly tenses. It takes everything he has not to resist- he knows better by now, knows how Freddie gets when Anatoly won't give him what he wants. What he's apparently wanted for so long. The motion provokes no response below the belt but Freddie isn't perturbed. He's always so patient with him, irritatingly so in Anatoly's opinion, because he's _trying _to piss him off and where is the hot-headed Freddie Trumper he'd played a year ago in Merano?

He knows the answer. The old Freddie, _sane _Freddie or as close as he ever gets, is trapped in an unopened bottle of prescription pills growing dusty back at his home in New York.

In any case he doesn't bother with resistance, because all it's going to get him is the handcuffs again and anything is better than that. Even this. He tells himself that, lies back and stares at the ceiling. It will be over eventually. All he has to do is take this.

He allows Freddie to stroke his bare skin wherever he can reach, caress it lovingly, receiving nothing in return. Maybe he'll get the message. (it's wishful thinking, of course he won't) His heart is thrumming like a trapped bird in his chest, body trembling, but there's nothing he can do. A hand dips between his legs and Freddie's soothing words are murmured directly into his ear, a tongue snaking out, teeth tugging at the lobe. He shivers involuntarily at the heat of his breath and Freddie fucking beams at him as he pulls away, stroking him to life whether he likes it or not.

Is there something wrong with him, for enjoying this in a way? Here in the room, despite the monotony, the uncertainty, the paralyzing fear of what might be to come, at least he has no responsibilities. Here, the decisions are made for him and Florence isn't depending on him. Nobody is depending on him. Here his children can't clamor at the phone, reading words parroted from their mother's mouth, pleading with him to return to his original cage, the last place he wants to be. Anatoly has come to resent all of the people in his life lately and as much as Freddie is completely out of his mind for pulling this stunt he's almost grateful in a way.

Yes, he wants to be free. But does he really? He's uncomfortable, sure, but is he any more comfortable in his own body outside of this room?

It's sad that the answer might be no.

He hisses when, out of the blue, Freddie's hand between his legs presses and his fingers breach exactly where it alarms him. This is a resistance that he can't help, entirely instinctual but if anything Freddie only finds this more arousing, nudging his fingers further up into the tight heat that Anatoly is sickened to think about. He can't look at the ceiling anymore, squeezing his eyes shut and panting, hearing his own breath so loudly in his head that it makes him dizzy. Fuck. Fuck, no, he needed to get out of here, he couldn't do this-

The whole process is humiliating and by the end of it Anatoly is red all over, sweat matting his curls, arching off of the bed with a moan he doesn't remember authorizing. He doesn't _want _this but God yes, he does. More of this. More not-thinking, more mindless sex, something he always pursued and never found. Not with Florence or any of the women before her. Freddie, it seems, means little enough to him that he might not fall hopelessly in love. Although that seems to be the object, doesn't it?

He can't bring himself to care, because the other man was between his legs now, visible over his leaking cock and he opens his eyes just in time to watch his face as he grunts and thrusts forward. There's a choked noise that he's shocked to realize comes from his own throat, lights flashing behind his eyes, pain and then-

Oh, God. There is something wrong with him. He can't possibly be enjoying this.

Freddie has him right where he wants him, which isn't unusual as of late but suddenly there's a connection between them and Anatoly clings to it as desperately as he pushes it away. His world narrows to a series of wanted-unwanted thrusts and Freddie's rough voice in his ear, his hands spreading his legs apart and pushing them up over his shoulders as he fucks him into the mattress.

_Defiles him._

But how can it feel this good if he doesn't want it? How can anything that hurts make him beg, make him groan like a wanton whore, make his head spin, how can it feel _good?_

What has Freddie done to him?

And even though he tells himself he doesn't want to be here, that this will all be over eventually, that Freddie is bound to be caught and then this wanted-unwanted touching and whispering and feeling will go away, Anatoly still finds his captor's name on his lips when he comes.

It's the best orgasm of his life.


End file.
